Page 4 of Game Misconduct

two

. . .

Nick

three years ago

We lost.

We fucking lost.

I don’t know how the fuck this happened. One minute, we were up 4–1 in a relatively comfortable Game 7.

Less than nine minutes later, the final buzzer rang out: 4–5. With Philadelphia of all teams winning the fucking Cup.

That Cup had our names on it! We were so fucking close. In the end, it wasn’t enough. Nothing I ever do will be enough.

I’m on day four of my personal pity party when I stumble into a bar in suburban Ohio. After the brutal loss in Philly, I booked the first flight out of there. For some reason, that led me to my best friend’s hometown, even though she doesn’t live here anymore.

I can’t stand the thought of going back to New Orleans and facing my city, my team. It was my job to help lead the team. And I led them to a loss.

I needed new scenery while still licking my wounds.

Or maybe… perhaps I can find someone to lick something else for me.

I haven’t been in the mood since that night. Yeah, it’s only day four, but after a long playoff drought—some superstitions can’t be challenged—I’m more than ready to get my dick sucked. And then some…

When I walk into the bar, though, I’m surprised at the obscene amount of blue and yellow. I thought those colors were illegal here. Hell, I once got heckled for wearing a blue suit with a yellow tie in Columbus, when in reality, I just liked the suit. I didn’t know about the rivalry.

The bar is surprisingly crowded for four o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, but I spot an empty barstool in the corner. A woman sits beside it, reading on a small tablet.

Good. She probably won’t want to talk.

Pulling my hat down over my forehead, I trudge over. The woman looks up and her eyes focus on me. She’s pretty, with copper hair pulled back into a loose ponytail and amber-brown eyes that look kind. She’s wearing high-waisted trousers that do little to hide her thick curves and a scoop-neck blouse that gives a tantalizing view of her generous chest. Tall, wide, and curvy, she is not some frail little thing, that’s for sure.

“This seat taken?” I mutter.

She shakes her head, then goes back to her e-reader. Great. I’m not in the mood to make friends, either.

When the bartender strolls over, I order a beer, then stare into it.

We lost. We fucking lost.

What am I supposed to do now?

There are four more seasons left on my contract, and having just been traded at the deadline, I don’t want to leave New Orleans. I want to make my mark, prove they weren’t wrong to invest in me.

Once I find the courage to get back there, that is.

A cheer goes up around the room and I startle, nearly spilling my beer. My neighbor looks up from her book to stare at the big-screen TV, where the College World Series is playing. Michigan just scored a run against Oklahoma.

A “HAIL” poster hangs on the wall, and looking around the room, I notice the big block M on the flag, along with the various blue and yellow decorations.

No, not yellow. Maize. “This is a Michigan bar.”

I don’t realize I’ve spoken the words out loud until the woman beside me laughs.

“You just realized?” She glances at me from the corner of her eye. “You’re not one of them, are you?”